Harry Potter and the Quintuple Wizard Tournament
by Dirk-Steadfast
Summary: Harry Potter embarks on his fourth year at Hogwarts along with his friends. They (maybe) make new friends from several other schools. Also Harry deals with Sweeney Todd-like obsession in regards to his true nemesis. There will be blood. And food. And Maybe some kind of mixup of both.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: That time has come to pass in which Ol' Bob and I, together again at last after having never parted, write the sequel no one asked for. For those of you who don't know, this is the sequel to our story Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Pet Rock. So if you haven't read that go give it a read, though you might not have to for this story to make sense. We also decided to skip books two and three cause . . . cause. Enjoy the readings and leave us a review or a flame or a pleasant mixture of both.**

**Prologue: The Journaliest Entry You've Ever Read**

_Taken from the journal of Harry Potter._

Dearest Journal,

I write to you now having mastered fully the diction, vocabulary, and participles of my Anglo-Saxon ancestry and language. I think it was Frederick Douglass who said, when speaking of the dire importance of literacy and education, "Don't be a fool—stay in school." AND SO I DID! The words hold power because they rhyme, I think. When I recall my humble beginnings at Hogwarts—I will skip my First Year, because maybe one, or two, people have written on the subject with abandoning abandon—I am compelled to record my fantastical histories. Herein lies, in brief, the chronicles of my Second and Third Years:

I met a downtrodden slave-elf dressed a pauperish rags who told me its name was Dobby. We became fast friends, though he did do many mean things to me, like try to keep me away from my school which was my only respite from my heinous family. He also broke my arm like unto a bitch and made me run into a wall; but then I gave him a sock and he became my strongest ally. I think it was Machiavelli who said, "All you need is love/ Love is all you need" (my dear friend Hermione maintains I should do more research before I site sources, but she is but the son of a man who owns a simple tonsorial parlor—what would she know of the world and the ways we live in it?). It also became clear to me in the summer before my second year that my dearest friend Ronald's sister, one Ginevra Weasley, wanted the HP D, if you'll pardon my vulgarity...and if you will not, then I say she wanted to ride me like a pogo stick. Her flirtatious machinations finally came to fruition when her trollish Valentine messenger shot an arrow far afield of my heart. And, with cherubim nonchalance, I had to crush her feelings like a soft-shelled snail.

And herein lies the meat and potatoes of this year. Unbeknownst to us, Ginny had acquired a special diary on the day before school in which we met both Kenneth Branagh and Draco's unfortunate father. Mr. Branagh, fresh from some directorial shimsham, had applied for and received the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, even though he lacked any sort of experience in magic (except the magic of theater). Upon our meeting, it became evident that Professor B. was a glorified mountebank, fit only to service the plumbing of Hogwarts Technical School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. At this same juncture we made the acquaintance of one Lucius Malfoy, who said to me, and I quote, "I know what you are on the inside, Mr. Potter. You're just a little fat girl, aren't you? You just eat eat eat eat eat eat eat eat eat eat eat, until your problems go away, but they never go away because they live inside you, so you just keep eat eat eat eat eat eat eat eat eat eat eating." My compatriots and I for a brief sparkling moment felt compassion for the poor Dracster, saddled as he was with a sire of dubious intelligence. But then he showed up on my Quidditch pitch, having purchased his way into success, and the fires of hatred were rekindled anew.

Also, about that diary: there was a snake, a bird clawed its eyes out, and I poked it with a sword. The snake, not the bird. I think Voldemort was there.

We now move on to Third Year, and what a year it was!

I met a doggy. It turned out to be my uncle. And Ron's rat turned out to be a fat person.

**But more importantly**, I had finally come face to face with my nemesis. He is man that has been carved into existence purely to test the width and breadth of my patience and anger. Imagine, if you will, an alabaster cheek adorned with the subtlest crimson hint of a blush. His strong jaw offsets the gentleness of his brown eyes, pure as the eyes of a deer, or a koodoo. His wavy John Lockes of auburn hair appeared spun by the most talented Oriental spinstresses; and yet the silky follicles looked practical, like the sort warriors of old would use to capture arrows fired at their fragile frames. His skin glowed—sparkled even!—in the sunlight. Hermione said I just imagined it, but she's a fool! I see with eyes unclouded!

Our rivalry began when he bested me handily in a very fair match of Quidditch, that was rudely interrupted by a gang of freakish dementors (black cloaky things, not important). I began to see this perfidious foe for what he really was—he was too nice. Anyone that nice is hiding something! Seriously, he always gets top marks, he doesn't get nervous around girls, he doesn't get flop sweat the way I do! When I aired my grievances towards him, he took me to a brunch—HE MADE THE BRUNCH HIMSELF AND IT WAS DELICIOUS! It tasted like hopes and aspirations and angel dreams, and I didn't know fritatas could kick like that! He must have used cumen or something! Whatever his secret ingredient is will hound me to the grave! Hermione accused me of monomania—but she does not know that I am madness maddened, the sort of madness that only stops to comprehend itself.

But then she gave me a ham, and for a brief time my demons were quieted, and I forgot about Cedric Diggory. Or, to his friends, C-Digs.

Ham is good. It is maybe my favorite food.

For now, faithful Journal, I must bid you adieu. For I am on my way to witness the Quidditch World Cup with my besties, Ron, Hermione, and Ron's somewhat sluggish family. Who can say what wonders and tribulations lie in wait for me in this, my Fourth Year of Hogwarts? Maybe I will be atop a broom, and maybe there will be dragons, and perchance there may be some Russkies. But I am no soothsayer, and shall not trifle with what is to come. Also, perhaps I'll return that Hooked On Phonics tape and finally acquire a library card of my own. HP out.

**A/N: Leave a review, or don't, or both, or all three. Even if you don't choose you still have made a choice.**


	2. Chappo 2

**A/N: After a wait of no one was counting, here is the second, but really first chapter of this Harry Potter story. Enjoy.**

**Chapter 1: **

**In Which It Is Really Chapter 2**

Harry dreamed in black and white. they were boring dreams, but they were all he had. Can you imagine the pain of staring at a black-and-white rainbow? It does the soul little comfort.

In this particular dream, Harry saw strange things. Strange even for a cultish wizard lad. Harry saw himself in a house (that somehow smelled, even though it was a dream—it had dream smells). An old man resided here—at least he smelled old. Suddenly, Harry began to see things through the old, smelly man's eyes. Harry saw a light coming from underneath a door. More importantly, though, the door itself had an excellent craftsmanship to it. It was the sort of door Harry wouldn't mind floating on in the middle of the cold sea while holding the dead hand of his lover, who only died because of his selfishness. It had to have been mahogany, or maybe ebony. . . then again, ebony doesn't float. Harry wished that this door had a peep –hole in it, one that was put in backwards so he could see inside. He heard people talking, but Harry was much more of a visual learner and so he didn't really understand what they were saying.

He walked to the door and opened it just a butt crack. He spied a big ol' comfy chair, one he wished he was sitting in because his lumbago was acting up (remember, Harry is an old man here). Next to that chair was a big comfy man, whom Harry recognized as Ron's rat, or whatever.

"But master," spake Man-Rat, "we can proceed without the boy—"

"The boy is everything!" said a voice, a voice that was probably sitting in Harry's comfy chair. "Harry Potter is the star in our sky! Now get me his blood!"

From out of the shadows, a man appeared, a man who defies description because, you know, when sometimes in dreams you see people and you know what they look like, but when you wake up you can't remember? Imagine that that is happening. "My lord," said the man, leaning on the comfortable ottoman, "I have a plan."

"Make it so!" said the voice.

The man sounded befuddled. "Do you want to hear it first?"

"Why? Is it a bad plan?!"

"No no! I, um, think it's a great plan…"

"Then why are we having this conversation?!"

"I honestly don't know, my lord."

A snake appeared from underneath the comfy chair and hissed. The voice said, "Nagini tells me there is a peeper outside our door, peeping away like there was no tomorrow. Wormtail, go see who it is. If they're selling anything, I'm not here!"

The portly man came to the door and swung it open. Harry gazed into small, watery eyes that looked like they had just been dried after a nice cry. "Hey," said the rotund Rat-fellow.

"Step aside you limpwrist," the voice said. "Nagini! Use constrict!"

The snake lunged at Harry/Old Man, and Harry felt a terrible tightness, like a witch's honeypot. The life was squeezed out of Harry, along with some pent-up gas. Harry collapsed to the ground, savoring his last moments of living by listening carefully to those around him, his murderers.

"It's super effective!" the voice said, congratulating his snake. "Now that we have—oh God! That smell! Yuck! Open a window!"

The fat man was waving a magazine in the air. "Light a match!" he said.

"No, you're blowing it towards me! If I was anything more than an evil fetus right now, I'd kick the crap out of you!"

The indescribable man headed for the door. "I'll get the febreeze," he said.

Everything went black.

#

Harry Potter woke up with a start. Then he fell back asleep cause it was still twilight outside and he wouldn't have to be up for another hour. He had another dream, this one even stranger than the last, but less interesting. He was fighting a buffalo that said things like, "The king is dead. Long live the king!"

Harry tried explaining why monarchies aren't always a good idea, but it wouldn't listen to reason. BECAUSE IT WAS A BUFFALO! Then Cedric Diggory arrived on the scene, having been flown there by a pack of flamingos, beautiful, elegant, flamingos that danced Swan Lake. Cedric said to the mighty fighty buffalo that Monarchies are lame, and the beast listened.

Harry woke up again, face utterly saturated with fear sweat. His heart beat like the beat of a drum, oh what a shame that you came here with someoooooooooone.

That's when Harry realized that Ron's alarm clock was going off, and that, like a jackass, Ron was sleeping through it. Harry threw his pillow at Ron's face. It didn't yield the results he had hoped for.

"Oh Hermione," Ron moaned, " . . . Go away."

"Wake up, Ron!" Harry screamed. Ron's eyes slowly opened like that nice door Harry saw in his dream.

"I'd rather die than get up," Ron muttered. Ron had hit angst early, or rather, angst had haymaker'd him like Dick Tracy.

"But we're going to the Quidditch World Cup today!"

Ron rolled over and put a pillow over his head. "No, I just wanna lie in bed and listen to my Nirvana…"

"What are you talking about?! The World Cup is all you ever talk about! It's all you ever write about in your journal! It only happens every four years—you've wanted to go since before I met you!"

"Whatever."

At that moment, Hermione stood in the doorway. Her characteristically smug expression was augmented today by the towel packed with a bar of soap that she swung to and fro like a flail. "So," she said. "Ronald has trouble getting up. He thinks he's special…" She walked over to Ron's bed and whacked the boy a good one on the nards. Ron howled. But Hermione did not relent. "I have tried to help Ron," she said. "But I have failed because _you _have let _him _fail!"

Harry was close to tears. "I didn't do anything!"

"Exactly!"

"Stop being a bully!"

Hermione, feeling that she had completed her mission, walked out of the room. But who should walk in then but thirteen-year-old Ginny Weasley, who had grown uncomfortably fond of Harry as the years had progressed. "Hey Harry," she said dreamily, breathing hard and loudly.

Harry grumbled. "Hey, Ginny."

Ginny stuck out a hand, as if to reach for her golden idol. "That's a nice shirt you've got on," she said.

"Thanks. I slept in it."

"…It's a nice color." Ginny also talked very loudly when she thought she was whispering.

Harry was becoming perturbed. "Yep. It's gray, Ginny. Do you need anything?"

"I saved you a seat next to me for breakfast. We can talk, or just, you know, smell each other."

"Thanks, but, um, I'm think I'm gonna sit next to Ron. 'Cause he's my best friend and all." Ron, who was at that moment crumpled in a weeping heap on the floor, looked like he was not having breakfast this morning. "Or I'll stand and eat," Harry said. "Good workout, you know."

"That's really smart! I'll do it too…next to you."

"Please don't."

"See you down there."

"Okay, Ginny."

"I can't wait."

"_Okay Ginny!"_

Ginny departed slowly, but the sound of her wheezing did not depart for several extra seconds. "Ginny should really wear that nose thing when she sleeps. It did wonders for Neville. Now he's merely fat and unhappy instead of also wheezy."

Ron began to mutter atonally, "Despite all my rage I am still just a rat in a cage."

"I'm gonna go get toast," Harry left the room without changing into regular clothes (the savage!).

**A/N: What happens next time? Breakfast? Brunch? Find out . . . next time. We don't own any of JK Rowling's characters, but if we did this is what they would be like.**

**Better.**


	3. Chapterpalooza!

**A/N: Here is the next chapter for your reading pleasure. The more we write the sadder things become for Harry.**

**Chapter 2:**

**The Quidditch World Sippy Cup**

Harry ate toast. As it had been prophesied, so it was fulfilled. Despite Ron's angst and the cramped quarters, Harry was having a good time at the Burrow—not the least reasons of which was because Molly and Arthur Weasley did not treat him like _A Child Called It_, as was the case with his real aunt and uncle. Harry looked around the tiny table in the miniscule breakfast nook and wondered how the utensils fit in the room. The Weasley's were poor, but that didn't quite do justice to their situation: they were the Bratislava of the wizarding world. For some reason, Arthur's government job did not pay well; or maybe it was because his numerous children ate him out of house and home; or maybe-er it was because they were Wizard Catholic, which meant they couldn't wear Wizard Rubbers, which was a Wizard problem. And yet they loved each other!..which only complicated matters further.

"So Harry," Mr. Weasley said, "are we all set to go?"

"But Mr. Weasley, you haven't eaten anything yet!"

"Yes, well," Mr. Weasley said sadly, "last night I had a dream in which I ate a big big breakfast, and it was so good I'm not hungry now." He sat back in his chair, and his stomach growled the word, _"Fooooooood."_

"Okay," Harry said, biting into his toast and relishing every bit of it.

After breakfast, the Weasley men and Harry (and-er Hermione) set out for the Quidditch World Cup. Molly and her daughter were left behind, given the choice to crochet or tend the flock (the Weasley's had begun raising a murder of hobgoblins, which were like regular goblins except smaller and ill-tempered-er). The reason only Hermione was able to go was because an old, outdated Wizard statute forbade travelers from traveling with more than one "concubine" in their midsts. The law was foolish and superfluous, but still heavily enforced.

The group climbed to the top of a hill, where they could see everything, including the elephant graveyard (which sunlight did not touch). This was where Harry saw something worse than the gaunt face of Death itself—he saw Cedric Diggory, resplendent in the golden light of the newborn sun. Cedric held his arm aloft, and an eagle perched there. Next to Cedric stood his father, who _also _held his arm aloft, upon which a larger eagle perched.

"Harry," Mr. Weasley said, "have you met-"

"Cedric—Diggory," Harry said through clenched teeth. "We've...had brunch."

"Hello Harry!" Cedric said, taking Harry's hand in the perfectly pressured handshake—firm but kind, and not limp at all. "How have you been?"

"I live in a small house with my angsty friend's family because my guardians hit me a lot!"

"Oh that's awful!" Cedric said, waving his dad over. "Why don't you stay at our place? Dad, can he?"

Amos Diggory came over and introduced himself, hugging Harry kindly. "Of course he can. We live in a mansion after all! Though we usually let homeless people stay in most of the rooms, free of charge. But we have a free one next to the pool...well, the smaller pool, only 30 by 60, I hope you don't mind."

Harry's face was the color of sad, angry tomatoes. "Is that measured in feet?"

"What are we in America? Meters!"  
Before Harry could actually explode, Hermione interrupted the conversation. "Hey Cedric! You know, I used to think carnal pleasures were for philistines, but"-Hermione twisted her hair around a finger and affected a terribly shrill laugh, while sticking out her chest and biting on her lower lip-"do you, like, wanna hang out? Get coffee and see a magic film?"

"Well," Cedric said, "I'm in this book club. We meet every week or so. Want to come with me? It's a lot of fun! Have you read much Berkeley?"

"Uh—sometimes," Hermione said dreamily. She had become hot and bothered, fanning herself as her womanly mechanisms began to lubricate.

Ron lifted his nose in the air and sniffed. "Do you guys smell clams?"

"Well," Mr. Diggory said, "Cedric, why don't you invite all your friends over some day for a pizza party?"

"That sounds swell! I love you, Dad!" The two shared a tender moment, a moment Harry Potter could never dream of duplicating.

Thanks to the wonders of magic, Harry's thought bubble could be seen by all around him. In this bubble was the image of himself re-heating beans, alone, in his upper Harlem studio apartment, with the rent two weeks overdue.

"Dude, think happy thoughts, yo," said Ron, tracing eye liner around his . . . eyes.

Harry's face tightened because of the incredible effort, but he succeeded. The image in the bubble was replaced by a short video of Harry Potter playing a friendly game of catch with the tombstone of his daddy, "Catch that ball, daddy!" Lil' Harry said as he lobbed the orb at the stone slab. It hit the rock and fell inert. Lil' Harry hung his head.

"Hey!" Mr. Weasley shouted, "That's a boot over there!" and he was right. There was a boot . . . over there.

Harry instantaneously shook away all the bad things n his life and trotted over to the discarded apparel. "Oh boy!" Harry squealed like a stuck pig, "I've never had a single boot before! I've had a pair, but never just one." Harry picked up the boot and cuddled with it. Then he was sucked into an invisible abyss. In a few seconds, he found himself lying on the ground, amongst thousands upon thousands of busy and unattractive wizards bustling hither and thither. Harry looked to the boot which had bamboozled him. His face expressed betrayal. "Why?" Harry pleaded. "Why?!"

Luckily, Harry was soon joined by the rest of his party. "It was a portkey, Harry," said Mr. Weasley. "It allows us to transport anywhere in the world that also has an old boot."

"Why don't we travel to Hogwarts this way?" Harry asked. "It's more efficient, not to mention much friendlier to our precious environment, which isn't going to last another two centuries at this rate."

"Can it, nerd," Hermione said, sidling up next to Cedric. "We got to a bunch to tents!" Hermione was so overcome by Cedric's handsomeness that she spoke like an imbecile.

But pitch camp they did, despite Hermione's constant fumbling with the rods and her ill-disguised attempts at flirtation with C-Digs. This being done, the group moved en masse towards the gigantic stadium that had been erected in twenty minutes (thanks to—you guessed—wizards and their magic). Once inside, they discovered their seats were less than optimal. There was a large man in the row behind them, eating popcorn and spilling it all over their faces. Also, they were in the 2008th row, where the oxygen was thin, so they didn't much care about anything really.

"Well, well, well..." said a snide, blond voice that was hidden behind two people in front of the group. Pale manicured hands squeezed between these two people, and caused them to part like tall grass, revealing one Draco "Dracster" Malfoy, "I see you're sitting way up here, Potter," Draco turned a friendly eye towards Cedric, "Hey C-Digs. Sorry your seats suck. Wanna sit with me?"

"Sup, Dracster," Cedric said, "That's very kind of you to offer, but I'm happy here with some of my best friends." He placed a hand protectively around Harry's shoulders, which was an impressive feat because Harry was sitting three seats away from his hated nemesis.

"That is an appropriate response," Draco nodded, "Anyway. I see you're still a big stupid head, Potter! How's it feel to be such?"

"Did you walk all the way up here just to mock us?" Ron asked with utmost logic. "It's, like, a twenty minute walk from- now I'm just assuming, you're in the Minister's box cause your whole family is a pack of brown-nosers- where you were. It's not any faster on the way down, you know. In fact it's rougher on your calves."

"I'd let you be rough on my calves, Cedric," Hermione whispered.

Cedric didn't lift his eyes from his Berkeley, "Cool, thanks."

"Ha! Shows what you know!" Draco sneered. "I'm sitting alone in the Minister's box. Dad is haggling with the peanut vendors, and Mom is probably at home still, on her fifth bloody Mary, with the pool boy..."

It might have been the lack of oxygen talking, but Harry asked, "Do you wanna sit with us, maybe?"

The Dracster scoffed angstily, "NO! I'd rather sit next to Fudge and his busy fingers!"

A silence followed, one that was not as satisfying as Harry would have hoped. Eventually, Draco just sort of trailed away.

The Quidditch match began. And a more bitter rivalry there could not have been!—The Czech Republic and North Korea. North Korea tightly regulated its magic schools and sports teams; the people of the DRNK did actually believe that Kim Jong Il had won the last Quidditch World Cup single-broomedly by a score of a billion to three (a score that was technically impossible considering the lowest thing you could score was ten). Dumbledore visited there once, and had a gay old time with the Glorious Leader and Dennis Rodman, who was there with his ridiculous piercings and whatnot.

Oh right, the match! The match was so awesome it can't be described! There were fireworks and leprechauns and chicks who turned into bird monsters. Harry saw none of this, as his binoculars were turned around, so everyone looked teeny tiny. The highlight of the match was the Czech Seeker, Viktor Krum, who was a little young to be playing professional sports (though, rumor spake that he had walked through the Berlin Wall). The final score was a lot to a little, though North Korea would claim to have won handily dandily (their players looked malnourished, and were duly executed upon repatriation).

The match was over. Despite all the craziness, the match only laster a svelte fourteen minutes. The tickets, even for the crummy seats Harry and Co sat in, ran about thousand galleons each.

"Man! That was so cool! Did you see the way they flew around and threw balls and stuff?!" Ron gushed, his love for blood-sport overpowering his angst.

"I couldn't see anything," Harry pouted, "I think my binoculars were broken."

"Well you didn't miss much," Hermione rolled her eyes, "Typical masculine broohaha, all sweating and grinding and flexing and . . ." she trailed off as she began fanning herself heavily, "I mean, it was all so rugged and passionate and dirty and Cedric I need you!"

Cedric took his eyes away from his book and said to Harry, "I recorded the whole thing. If you want you can come over to my mansion house and watch it on my jumbo screen hyper-magic television. We can eat tacos, too."

Ron almost exploded with joy at the thought of re-seeing this fantasy (IN HD!).

"How?!" Harry yelled. "How did you record it?!"

Cedric shrugged. "Magic."

From stories down, and across scores of rows, Draco's voice carried up to the nosebleeds: "You suck, Potter!"

**A/N: Read and review, or review and read, but never a third option!**


	4. Chapter 4

5

**A/N: We are back after a sort of hiatus. I blame Ol' Bob, who got himself kidnapped by a quintette of super-model-villains, and I've only just rescued/stolen him. Begrudgingly he came back to writing this with me.**

Chapter Four:

Drunken Surprise (Though the real surprise is that anyone's reading this)

Harry and Co. went back to their tent, which they had all bonded over while putting it up because it took three hours. On the outside the tent only measured a sleek five by five feet. But don't you worry, on the inside it was even smaller, partially due to the fact that Mr. Weasley insisted on everyone having their own cooler. He didn't want his bananas touching the bananas of others. It was also unfortunate that they were across from Cedric's mega tent, which housed, among other things, a soup kitchen, and the sweetest skiball table you've ever never seen.

Ron was putting his fishnet shirt on, getting ready to go to the party at Cedric's tent. Hermione was already there. Harry was refusing to go.

"It's just a stupid party," Harry complained to Ron, "just a stupid party with lots of chicks and snacks and Pabst Blue Ribbon. Who cares? Hang out with me and we'll play another game of Settlers of Catan!"

Ron shimmied into his shirt, which did not stretch has much you would hope. "No thanks, Harry. This is my opportunity to join the popular crowd. Now then, which lipstick brings out the darkness in my eyes?"

Harry observed the choices. "These are both black."

Ron sniffed. "You don't get me." He left the small tent.

"…Don't get you a girl," Harry muttered. Defeated, Harry played himself in chess…and lost. After he threw the board in a rage, he popped open a bottle of O'Doul's (the only beverage he was permitted to drink)and pretended to get drunk. He tried his best to drown out the sounds of happiness wafting on the winds towards his insignificant tent.

But Harry was human, and he was eventually overcome by the intoxicating aroma of grub. Fondue pizza. What an age they lived in!

Harry, fueled by righteous hunger and fake-drunk confidence, went up to the Diggory tent and attempted to kick the door in. In this, he was unsuccessful, because it was a tent, and his foot became tangled in the fabric. "Help!" he screamed. "It can't end like this!"

"I'm here for you, Harry!" a voice called, a halo of light hiding the speaker's features. He untied Harry and set him free like with that sasquatch in _Harry and the Hendersons _(which was playing on one of the numerous big screen televisions within). As Harry got up to embrace his guardian angel, he realized it was, in fact, the angel of death. Cedric Diggory.

"You!" Harry yelled.

"It is I," Cedric said. For some reason, Cedric had a rapier by his side. "I was dueling five other dudes. All proceeds go to charity."

"Why does nothing you say make sense?!"

He took Harry by the arm. "C'mon in. Now it's a real party!"

"Please allow us to take your coat," said a kindly and subtly attractive coat person.

"I don't have a coat," responded Harry.

Harry felt something land on his shoulders. "You do now, sir," said a passing butler. The coat was a very well-made pea coat that obviously had a story behind it, what with the bullet hole.

"I'll take that for you," the coat person said. Before Harry even realized what was happening the coat was off and the person was handing him a small ticket. "Your number is 237, but to me you'll always be number one."

Harry stood, ticket in hand, for a few moments just breathing heavily. Have you ever put tinfoil in a microwave? That was what was happening to the inside of Harry.

"You look dazed. Grab a Tom Collins and relax," Cedric patted Harry on the shoulder.

Enter Mione. She was in a bikini, wet having just come from the Jacuzzi where she yucked it up with a bunch of socialites. "Where have you been, Cedric?" Hermione said, "You said we would meet in the water."

"Oh yes," replied Cedric handsomely, "I assumed you meant the Olympic-sized lap lane we have. I did forty laps waiting for you."

"But it's only been ten minutes?"

Cedric flexed his upper body, and his shirt exploded off of him. "I know," he said.

Before Hermione could throw herself at Cedric, Ron ran up and spake, "Hey, Cedric. Did you invite a bunch of Death Eaters here? Cause there's a bunch of Death Eaters here by the piano."

"Which piano?" asked C-digs.

"Ummm. The black one?" said Ron.

Cedric dashed dashingly away from the group, "Please be the Yamaha!" he shouted.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione ran after Cedric. When they found him, he was attempting to quell a spirited rendition of the German national anthem, being sung by a group of highly conspicuous Death Eaters. How had they gotten in? Probably lifted a flap (which is kinda how Troy fell, when you think about it). Why were they dressed as Death Eaters? One too many PBR's will make you want to relive the glory days, too. Cedric's Dad got the rest of the guests to start singing the Canadian national anthem, because it was much more upbeat than the British one, to quell the rising tide. His plan worked so well that the Death Eaters became enraged, and began tipping tables and refusing to tip their waiters.

Chaos ensued. Spells flew hither and thither, but especially hither. Harry grabbed as much food as he could carry, shoved it into his pockets, and ran away. Outside of the tent, the world fared no better (and the World Fair had been canceled). Harry saw tents lit aflame, families running for their lives, women with strollers screaming "My baby!" even though the baby was in their stroller. Through the madness, Harry could feel the cheese of the pizza in his pocket beginning to burn.

Hermione shoved him aside. "Get me outta here!" she screamed. "I can't die with my hair so frizzy!"

"Me neither!" Ron said, joining them. "Help! My fishnets are caught on a hook!"

"That is so ironic," Hermione said.

Harry wrenched his buddy free, and the three ran off in search of Mr. Weasley. "Quick!" Harry said. "Find a boot and let's get out of here! My pocket pizza's starting to hurt!"

From beside them, a voice called out a terrifying spell. A flash of light blinded our heroes, and the light shot towards the sky. It burst like a firecracker, into the awful shape of a snake wrapping itself around a woman who also happened to be on fire. All Harry could hear around him were screams as people beheld the mark in the sky.

Harry realized also that all the Death Eaters wore matching jackets with this symbol on the back. There was also a very catchy chant being sung.

"_From your first killing curse_

_To the last that you blast_

_Death Eater's jolly hearse_

_Where the fun doesn't last _

_If you're pureblood that's good_

_If you're muggle that's fun_

_Either way it's a party_

_But rhyming is hardy."_

Well. It was mostly catchy.

After the the verses of the song repeated a few times Harry got the rhythm down and began singing while he ran. In the background that none of our three heroes could see, but is nontheless important to you, sweet Nobody, was C-digs fending off a few dozen Death Eaters. "Get the women and children and the men and the gender nonspecifics out of here! I'll take care of these chumps!" Cedric bellowed. Harry would have helped out like a good little protagonist, but he was overcome with a hunger and decided now would be a good time to eat that pocket pizza.

As Harry munched contentedly on the pizza he was hit upside the noggin by something he saw coming, but afterwords forgot about because he lost much of that night from the injury. All he remembered was Ron screaming, "We've got to find a boot!"

When he woke up he was on the Hogwarts Express with Ron and Hermione.

"How long was I out for?" Harry asked.

"Huh," Ron said, pulling his headphones away from his ear to hear is "best" "friend." The _My Chemical Romance _could be heard easily.

"This is a dream, Harry. You're still unconscious," Myawn said melancholililily.

"If that were true," Harry said,standing from his seat (a little too quickly so his head got dizzy,) "I could sing!" the last word was attempted to be melodious, but ended up sounding more like a vultures death rattle whilst pooping. Death pooping.

From outside the compartment the trio could hear Cedric's voice cut through the chaotic din. It was the most beautiful thing any of them had ever heard and ever would hear. Ever.

"_Alas, my love, you do me wrong to cast me off discourteously!" _

Ron looked out to see what was going on, "I think he's playing the flute too. Like, at the same time."

"HOW?!" Harry screamed, "It's not even possible to do that!"

Ron shrugged, "Magic?"

Hermione swooned. From outside Harry heard Draco shout, "You suck, Potter!"

**A/N: Leave a review, or, as is more often the case, don't!**


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